


When Push Comes to Shove

by thatotherperv



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always the Opposite Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angsty Schmoop, Dubious Consent, F/M, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, Underage Sex, girl!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-30
Updated: 2008-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:19:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatotherperv/pseuds/thatotherperv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically I've been playing with this idea of what would happen if Sam wanted Dean and Dean didn't really want him/her back.  And to multitask, I smushed it with my theories on Winchester dynamics if Sam was a girl.</p><p>Original post <a href="http://thatotherperv.livejournal.com/232002.html">here</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	When Push Comes to Shove

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings/Notes** : Sam was born a girl, in the fic she's 15. Brief noncon/dubcon with an omc.

There was an oppressive, thick press of air that night. The tail end of June in Macon, Georgia was stifling, even near midnight, and it made Dean sweat as he hustled armfuls of belongings from the apartment to the car's trunk. He was trembling, too, rage shriveling into something small and helpless, just like Sammy, curled already in the Impala's back seat.

Dean would have sworn all his adrenaline had gone the way of three poltergeists in Bolingbroke, but he'd have sworn wrong. One shrill cry that sounded like his name after stepping in the front door, and it had all come surging back.

John was grim and silent when he slammed behind the wheel of the car and then they were booking hastily towards the county line. But not before they swung into an upscale neighborhood and deposited a bruised-bloody boy on the curb in front of his parents' home. Like fucking garbage.

* * *

"You knew."

Dean's knuckles were swollen and purplish-blue, but John's fist clenched like he wished he'd gotten a hit in, too. Regardless, Dean would probably get an earful tomorrow for beating some rich kid unconscious. It was the kind of attention they really didn't need.

Right now, or _ever_.

" _Answer me_." His father's spittle landed near his eye. Dean tried not to flinch.

"I didn't see the harm—"

"…You didn't…. _I'LL TELL YOU THE FUCKING_ —" A muffled wail rose suddenly from the bathroom and John's roar cut off abruptly, freezing like Dean then pivoting swiftly to punch the wall with a bitten-off curse. She had closed herself in there, but that was the first was real confirmation she was crying. Not that they hadn't suspected. John's eyes went narrow, voice dangerously low.

"I think we both see the _fucking harm_ now, don't we, Dean."

Right that second, John's voice held so much venom that Dean held still and kept his head down. Dean had never tasted the penny-sharp fear of being John Winchester's prey, but right then, he half-expected to be struck and he wouldn't have fought it.

He'd fucked up. And he had no excuse for himself.

His dad hadn't been happy in the first place, leaving Sammy home alone. Yeah, they could scrape through a three-man job with two. Sam was enrolled in driver's ed and it was in the family's best interest that she get legal driving credentials as soon as she could, but John didn't have to be happy about it, and it was Dean who'd vouched for how fine she'd be on her own. And yeah, he'd known Sammy was sweet on a boy. A little _too_ sweet, if you asked Dean, but he supposed she was a girl no matter how good she was with a rifle. All that giggling was probably natural. He'd even suspected she had plans to invite the little snot over, and he wasn't thrilled with it, but the Winchester family was a goddamn experiment in gender equality…if she wanted to get her rocks off like he had at that age, who was he to stop her?

When Sam was fourteen, they'd let her go hand-to-hand with a skinwalker to test her progress, and she'd almost won…wore him out enough that Dean was able to slip in easy for the kill. She'd grown three inches and settled into them since then. It never occurred to Dean to fear her safety with a _teenage boy_.

He _deserved_ to be hit for being _so fucking wrong_.

He waited for it. John was six feet of barely leashed violence that was bound to break any second now. He flinched when John reached past him for his coat.

"We are _not_ done talking about this."

He didn't wait for an apology or a yessir. The door slammed so hard the room rattled.

Without John's angry hisses, Dean could hear the sound of Sammy's sniffling. Made him feel like lead. Eventually he stood and knocked on the bathroom door. Girl or not, there had never been concessions for privacy in their lifestyle. No room to. Gender was best ignored when it couldn't be given wide berth, and he'd rarely ever knocked for Samantha in his life. But now he was hesitant to barge in.

She didn't even answer. He heard the spin of the toilet-paper roll and the blow of snot into tissue. He felt something clench hollow in his middle.

"Sam."

The doorknob turned with a click— _locked?_ —and swung inward. She was perched on the closed toilet seat, knees tucked towards the bathtub and slender shoulders folded inwards. He opened his mouth, but couldn't grasp what to say.

So what came out was, of course, all wrong. "Jesus _FUCK_ , Samantha, why didn't you stop him?"

Without looking, she smacked the door closed. So hard it rebounded and hit the towel rack, giving Dean the chance to slip through before she could try again.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I just—"

She'd just _let him_. He'd rushed into their bedroom to find her laying underneath that creep, freely crying, and when Dean pulled him away, there had been blood…. Thinking about it, he felt that trembling rage swell up again within him.

He'd never expected for Sammy…. She was strong. How could she just _let_ someone—

Her chin was trembling. He sat on the tub across from her and watched, legs tangled with hers. She hadn't let a single tear fall since he'd come into the room.

"Sammy…."

"I don't know!" she finally choked out. "I don't know why I…. I know I could have—"

"Sshh, shhhh." He suddenly felt like a jackass for suggesting it. He stroked the back of her neck and took her weight, solid, when she tipped forward and hid her face in the crook of his shoulder. Her breath was warm and sweet and she felt too small in his arms.

"Sam." He struggled with what to say. "Are you ok?"

Stupid thing to say. He corrected himself before the hysteria in her laugh could be matched by some sort of banshee-like shriek.

"Are you. Do you need a hospital? We can…."

He thought about doctors. He thought about pressing charges. He thought about fake medical insurance and the warrant probably out in John Winchester's name.

"No."

"Samantha."

" _No_."

"You were bleedi—"

"I was a _virgin_ , Dean." There was an embarrassed bite there that he normally would have endured with a good-natured eye-roll. At the moment, it just pissed him off.

"You know damn well that's not what I—" She stiffened in his arms and he choked back the futile argument. Thought about injury and how Dad said it was always better to check— "At least let me. Check and make sure."

She pulled back so fast the back of her skull made his teeth clack. Her face was full of normal, beet-red outrage, and he almost laughed in relief to see it. "Ew. _Dean!_ "

He allowed himself to crack a grin. "Ok, ok. That was maybe my worst idea ever."

"God," she huffed, burying her hot face against his neck. "Being the world's biggest manwhore does not qualify you in the field of gynecology."

He chuckled. Breathed in the scent of her shampoo. "You're _sure_ —"

"I checked, ok? Nothing. serious." Her voice dropped in volume. "He wasn't really hurting me like _that_."

To his credit, he was reluctant to let it go. But she swore she didn't need a doctor, and with their secrets? Psychiatrists were out of the question. He _knew_ it wasn't good for Sam to let it go. But he did.

* * *

Their father, as it turned out, did not get any better at dealing with what had happened to Sam. He spoke to her too softly and looked at her even less. The days were one long, awkward silence. He never finished yelling at Dean for his failings…just regarded him with the cold sort of anger that would be a long time fading.

Nobody knew how to bear a grudge like John Winchester.

He also drank. A lot. Dean was pretty sure he stayed sober on hunts because he came back alive, but he had no way of really knowing since he was no longer invited. His only place was with Sam now, a willing shadow.

If Dean had the balls, he would have yelled at their old man. John may have thought he was doing them a favor by treating Samantha like cracked glass, but instead it just encouraged her to be frighteningly withdrawn. She no longer objected to living out of hotels, and she didn't mention enrolling in school for the fall. August came and went, and they didn't even bother with the pretense. Eight hours out of Dean's direct line of sight was, according to John, too many. And she didn't raise a stink at all. She didn't fuss about normality, didn't beg permission to go out and do teenage things, she didn't even bitch that she was hardly allowed five goddamn minutes alone anymore.

A few months after the assault, she spoke about it for the first time. They were on a morning run, because Dad was out of town—in the weeks afterwards, he'd disallowed PT for Sam. Even once she'd healed, he was damn stubborn. For once, Sam wanted to train and she wasn't allowed. Like he'd just now noticed Sam wasn't another son. Dean told himself he wasn't disobeying Dad so much as indulging Sammy's whims. If she decided to accompany him on a run, what was he _supposed_ to do, tie her to the bed?

"You know, I told him I wanted to fuck."

Dean had already lost himself in the rhythm of feet and the cadence of breath, and the bald statement damn near startled him into stumbling. But Sam didn't pause or meet his eyes, just kept running an even pace past the local beer shack. He reached for some kind of reply to that, but the best he could do was, "What?"

"I told him…. It's no big deal to _you_ , right? I just figured it would be—" His loose hands tightened into fists as her breath caught. "just, a fuck. You were my age when you lost it, and I just…you and Dad can stop being weird now, ok Dean? He didn't rape me. I told him I wanted it."

For a second he fantasized he _had_ killed that dumbfuck. It was better than wanting to throttle Samantha. It was better than being a knot of impotent rage.

"You were _crying_ ," he finally managed. His voice was dry and spare with the effort to keep it even. "If he couldn't tell the difference between…between _that_ and consensual, then he deserved a fuck of a lot worse than he got from me. Don't let me hear you talk like that again, you understand me?"

She was silent, words stopped up by the clench of her delicate jaw.

"You get me?" he barked.

The angry spark in her eye was more life than he'd seen there in weeks. "Yeah. Sure, whatever."

He nearly choked on the angry mutter. "Next time something like that happens, I swear to God, I'll have his balls."

He shot her a look, and for just a second, her face was soft.

* * *

They'd damn near always shared a bed. Not in an apartment, but hotels didn't come cheap, and Dean didn't like to sleep on a fucking cot. The alternative was contending with Sam's bony knees, but he'd never found that so bad.

And he'd always felt better if he could hear her breathing when he woke up in the night.

Since Macon, he often woke up to find her curled against him and clinging. They never started that way but she usually ended up with her ear pressed against his heart.

The night after their conversation, he woke up from a very good dream with her hand pressed against his hard dick.

He groaned in groggy appreciation at first, because dude, it was a hand on his cock. Her breath was fast and moist against his throat and the way she groped him was clumsy but sure. She stroked him through his boxers, until the head pressed against the fly and she brushed across bare skin.

He hissed, jerked, and the sound of their father stirring in the next bed was like freezing cold water.

Holy shit, this was _Sam_.

His fingers were way too harsh when they wrapped around her wrist and squeezed. She'd bruise tomorrow. Her head stayed down and she stroked him again, finally looking up when he yanked away her hand.

John's soft snores were the only sound in the room as Dean stared. Her eyes were bright with reflected streetlights, her jaw was hard, and she looked like she was about to put up one hell of a fight.

So when she tried to jerk her hand from his, he held on. She bared her teeth and jerked again, and he fought her on it til she thrust the heel of her other hand hard into his side. He realized she wanted to get away, and like he was burned, he let her go.

She rolled angrily to the far edge on her other side, spiteful in the way she yanked all the covers around her.

But it wasn't lost to him that she built them into a little cocoon. He let it go.

* * *

The next morning was tense all over. John was hung over and Dean hadn't slept. Usually John's bad moods were disguised by the sounds of their horseplay and teasing, but that morning they packed up in complete silence.

They were twelve-point-two miles down the road. Dean drove while John drank his sober-up coffee and talked at him—woman in white, St. Louis suburbs, three men missing. Dean's eyes flicked reflexively to the mirror, to Samantha, who hadn't looked at him or made a funny face all morning. Instead, she was glaring steadily at their father.

Had been for twelve-point-one.

Dean saw the rage finally bubble to the surface right before she let herself explode. "Stop treating me like a FUCKING LEPER."

John stopped mid-sentence, turned and blinked. Dean had never been gladder to hear that petulant flash of temper.

"Something bad happened to me, and now you're acting like I don't even exist. Snap out of it, I don't need to be coddled like a fucking baby." Then, almost an afterthought: "And stop drinking like a goddamn alcoholic."

Dean could hardly keep his eyes on the road for the expression on his father's face, which held more than just anger. The air in the car was thick with silence.

Finally, John's lips thinned and he turned to faced front. "Two extra clicks before bed tonight, Samantha. Maybe next time you'll remember not to swear at me when you have something important to say."

Dean narrowly avoided an ill-timed laugh. He suddenly felt light as could be. That was closest to an apology they were likely to ever get from a man like him.

He glanced in the mirror, expecting to catch Sammy's eye and share in the victory. Her face was softer than it had been in weeks, and a small smile played at her mouth. But her eyes were pointed stubbornly away.

* * *

She gave him the cold shoulder for three days.

Not completely. Dad would have had something to say about _that_ , particularly now that things had gone back to as normal between him and Sam as they were ever gonna be. She spoke to Dean enough that he couldn't call her on being sullen, but he knew Sammy better than anybody, and he knew that she was.

It wasn't hard to figure out why.

So he had three days to stew in his own juices. Worry and be mad. Was he supposed to smile and just let her _jerk him off_? He itched to point out that _that_ was about as far from normal as she could get. Maybe this was some kind of weird delayed PTSS thing for what had happened in Georgia. In which case, it was even _more_ fucked. What the hell did she want from him? He could count on one hand the number of times she'd spent this long shutting him out. And he was pretty sure all of _those_ had been Dad's fault.

Between the three of them, St. Louis was a one-day job, but they stayed put after. John was piecing together research for the next hunt, or a handful of future potentials, and he was in a world all his own. Dean ended up in a pool hall every night, and he spent his days being actively ignored by Sammy. Three days in, she claimed she was going stir crazy and flounced out without another word.

John stopped him when Dean went to follow.

"Relax, we're two blocks from a mall. She just needs some time."

Something foul tried to crawl up his throat. "Dad—"

" _Dean_." John regarded him levelly, until Dean sat on the bed and looked away. When he spoke again he was quiet, and a little contrite. "She's right, Dean. We raised her to be an independent girl. We have to trust she can handle herself, or else she never will." When John looked up from his book again, he had the shadow of a smile. "Besides, you're just antsy cuz she's pissed at you. Welcome to my world."

Dean fell back onto the bed with a laugh and contemplated what their dad would say if he knew the cause of his little girl's foul mood. If he'd be so damn flippant about it then. Probably not.

"Whatever it is, she'll get over it. Just ride it out."

Dean snorted. They both knew that Sam never _got over_ anything.

* * *

Two hours later and cabin fever was making _Dean_ lose his damn mind. He was bored. Dad demanded quiet, so he couldn't watch tv. Too early to hustle pool. Rather gouge his eyes out than help research.

And when the fuck had Sam started spending time at the _mall?_

He got up and pulled his boots on, restless. Dad regarded him suspiciously over the edge of a book, so he offered a roundabout excuse.

"Want anything from the vending machine?"

John grunted. "No."

He stepped out the door and his mind strayed briefly in the direction of the mall. The snack machine was in the lobby at this place. He shook off Sam-shaped thoughts and headed up the walk.

The bell jangled when he walked in, but nobody was sitting at the front desk. Spent a few minutes debating Cheetos versus those always-stale cinnamon buns when he heard a moan from the office and smirked. There was no one at the front desk, and now he knew why.

Something about the soft little girl-cries got under his skin. He pressed A4 for PopTarts (if you used your imagination, they were kinda like pie) and watched his selection roll on the spiral and plummet to the machine's floor. That's when the chick in question uttered actual words and he froze.

He was across the lobby and over the counter in the blink of an eye.

The door slammed open so hard the knob probably broke through drywall. He stared at his half-dressed sister, straddling the pimply little dweeb he remembered from check-in. The _stupid_ pimply dweeb who didn't have the common sense not to call attention to his hand down Samantha's pants when he yanked it out guiltily.

He stared. The kid's fingers were _wet_. Dean saw red.

"Sam! _Out_."

From the way she sighed, you'd think this was another mundane argument, not a crisis about showing some stranger her bra. "He wasn't hurting me, Dean. In fact, I was just starting to enjoy—"

"I'd _seriously_ reconsider finishing that sentence."

She yanked her shirt on with her best teenage huff and stormed past him out the door. He briefly considered Sam's choice ( _schmuck_ ), before following her into the parking lot.

"Sam. _Sam_. What in the hell is wrong with you?"

She stopped and spun on her heel. "What in the hell is wrong with you, Dean. I was just having fun."

"You don't even _know_ that guy!"

She crossed her arms. "What's the name of the girl you fucked last night."

"That's me. We're talking about _you_ , so don't—"

"Is this the part where you try to spin your hypocrisy by saying it's different, and you of all people know what guys want?"

Some days, she was too damn smart. He fumed in silence.

"Thought so. Just because _I_ have tits doesn't make this a self-esteem issue."

No, this was clearly just a _Sam_ issue. But saying that wouldn't go over. "Is this about—"

"No. No, no, no. Jesus Christ, Dean, can you let that go? It was…I was stupid." He opened his mouth to speak but she steamrolled over him. "I know it's his fault. I know he shouldn't hurt me, whatever. But I shouldn't have let him come over in the first place. I just wanted…. I didn't think it through."

"Oh, yeah, because right now you're exercising such caution."

She rolled her eyes, shaking her mussed hair out of her face. "I wasn't gonna have _sex_ with _him_ , Dean. That was just about getting off."

Dean wanted to slam his head against something hard. Until he passed out or suffered short-term memory loss.

Right now? She could call him a hypocrite all she wanted. This wasn't ok.

"Sammy." He took a deep breath and lowered his voice. Something about vinegar and honey. "Seriously, man, screw being a girl, this just isn't _you_. I always thought you'd want. Something special. You've always been kinda…." The romantic. His little Sam.

That approach was a total miscalculation, because suddenly she looked like she wanted to cry. She hunched in further, like it wasn't unseasonably warm that day. "Special with _who_ , Dean? I'm a Winchester. I don't get to have things like that."

His chest felt tight. "Sam…."

She shook her head and blinked back her tears. "Just leave me alone."

He watched her walk away, folded in on herself, this time actually pointed in the direction of the mall.

* * *

He spent the rest of the afternoon staring at the ceiling. He'd forgotten his food, but he wasn't about to go back for it. Would have been nice, but he'd probably just take everything out on that horny little dipshit.

Time dragged on.

Sammy finally came back when the sun started going down—just when Dean was about to go looking for her, privacy or no. She was carrying a plastic bag with a familiar logo. He sat up with interest, all conflict forgotten.

"Whatcha got there, Sammy-Sam."

For the first time in days, she smiled at him. Rolled her eyes and tossed him the package.

"Dude. Cinnabon. _Awe_ some!"

She snorted on her way to the can. John lifted a brow. "All's forgiven, huh?"

Dean stuffed his mouth and shrugged.

* * *

That night he drifted awake to find Sam wrapped around him. Pressed chastely against his side with a hand over his beating heart. He knew she was awake. Her breath was slow and even, but she was holding herself too still and he could feel her lashes flutter against his bare shoulder.

He rubbed soothingly along her back, and on a soft sigh, she relaxed against him. Her hair was soft and smooth and he combed his fingers through, trying to coax her to sleep.

His girl. What was he gonna do with her?

She'd always been a creature apart, from him, from John. Made friends easily, which Dad confused with the ability to cope with all the moving around. Really, she wasn't cut out to be a nomad like them. Would it have been different, if instead of a daughter, John had had two sons?

He doubted it. Sammy would be difficult no matter what shape she came in. Might've made this sex thing a non-issue for Dean though. No matter what she said, it _was_ different. Felt different to him. But maybe that all went back to the apartment in Macon.

To be fair, the incestuous groping would have remained a sticking point, no matter what.

He wondered what _that_ was all about. They'd both left it conveniently out of their afternoon freak-out. Maybe it had just been some sort of mistake. A fluke. Girls had wet-dreams right? Maybe she'd just been sleepy and confused.

The idea of his sister being knowledgeable enough to jack someone off _in her sleep_ was not at all a reassuring one.

This whole thing had thrown him for a loop. He'd never really thought about Sam having _sex_. Yeah, he'd given her the low-down on contraception methods and bought her tampons and glared at everyone _else_ who noticed her boobs, but.

She was _Sammy_. And she'd seemed pretty content to ignore the new hardware til now.

She was asleep by then, head heavy on his shoulder and body slumped against his side. Her breasts were pressed against him. Her ass was an easy grab away. She was soft and she smelled like heaven. Thinking about these things sort of baffled him…realizing fully that _other_ men would be thinking them. It just seemed like a few years ago he'd learned to keep her hair back with a French braid, taught her how to tie her pink Payless sneakers, promised her there was no monster under the bed when Dad tried to give her that .45.

Those weren't the things she needed from him, now. He just wasn't sure how to give her whatever she needed next.

* * *

They headed out to Idaho the next day. John caught wind of suspicious activity along the Snake River and wanted to check it out. They were five hours down the road when Sam started complaining about being cramped in the very spacious backseat.

It was roomy. Dean should know.

"Maybe it's time to think about a new car," John said, after she'd pouted herself to sleep. "You kids are grown now, and this place ain't big enough for all of us."

He was horrified. "What? No! You can't sell the Impala!"

John shot him a withering look. "A _second_ car."

"Oh." His skin crawled at the idea of splitting up. "Yeah, sure. I'll ask Bobby if I can have an old junker."

Things were quiet for a few miles. John changed course slightly for South Dakota.

"Actually, I was thinking about a truck for myself. Let you and Sam have the Impala."

Dean turned his head and stared at his father. "What?"

John shrugged like it was no big deal. "You know she'll always wanna ride with you. We could use a truck, and this way, you'll have more room for her crap."

Her fondness for material goods was a sore point between Samantha and their father.

He swallowed his excitement. The Impala would be _his_. It was harder to feel shitty about being divvied up. "Sure, that makes sense."

* * *

Bobby Singer lived like an even bigger bachelor than their father ever did. It was pretty apparent from the décor that his place had never seen a woman's touch, but he'd always spoiled the tar out of Sam. Dad said he'd had a daughter of his own, once. When they were little, he'd fixed a room for them upstairs with no concession to Dean's masculinity. It had soft pillows and flowery sheets and _potpourri_ , and an honest-to-God vanity dresser. Bobby used to stock it with cheap cosmetics for Sam to play with as a kid, which made John grumble about the practicalities of grease paint and smile softly when he thought no one was looking.

"Uncle Bobby!" She threw her arms around his neck, damn near taller than him now, and mumbled "You've lost weight."

Bobby squeezed her back. "Hell, kid, how would I know. I don't have a figure to watch."

"Whatever. I bet every single chick in South Dakota's got an eye on you." Dean and John watched with amusement as Bobby blushed. Dean had a theory that with Bobby, flattery got Sam everywhere. Case in point: "Hey Bobby, I don't suppose you bought any of those—"

"In the fridge."

"You're the best!"

Sam streaked inside and Bobby laughed. They spent the evening catching up on shop talk.

* * *

"I'm bored."

Sammy had been squirrelly all morning. She was always like this when they came to see Bobby, probably because she'd always gotten away with things here she never could with Dad. She'd been needling at Dean all morning, laughing and poking fun and splashing dishwater. It was the happiest he'd seen her in months, and Dean couldn't even bring himself to feign complaint.

But it was his God-given right to give her a hard time, so he pretended not to hear the first time.

She kicked out at him like the brat she was. "Dean. You deaf? I'm _bored_."

He sighed through his nose and slipped her a look out the corner of his eye, playing exasperated just long enough to lock on target. Bobby had recently "come across" a necklace for Sam and left it as a present in their room.

Before she saw it coming, he'd snatched it out of her hands and made it halfway across the yard.

She didn't bother yelling at him before she gave chase. He could hear her jump off the porch, then he clambered up on the hood of an old Ford and hopped to the next—hood, trunk, roof, hood, trunk, roof. They'd gotten in trouble for this more than once before. Now that they were grown, it was because they'd _dent the merchandise_. When they were young, they would _break their fool necks (serve them right)_. Nothing had ever stopped them before.

Dean heard a thump and a curse, and he looked over his shoulder to check on Sam. Her limbs were getting away from her, again. She'd grown a lot since they did this last.

"Break your wrist again and Dad will have your ass."

"I hate you."

He laughed as she scrambled to her feet, giving her time to close some distance before he took off again.

The necklace itself got slipped safely in his pocket. It was a cheap trinket and a thin excuse to get her to come after him, but he'd never hear the end if he actually dropped it. He made for the far side of the yard, and the thicket beyond. As kids they'd hunt each other for hours in there. He knew exactly where he was headed.

He hit the ground with a soft thud and knocked up a cloud of dust just as Bobby's dogs rounded the maze of cars, crazy and barking their heads off because Sam and Dean had been playing out of reach. They got under his feet and slowed him down, and he swore. He was looking for something to throw when a hundred and twenty tall, skinny pounds whacked into him from the back. He hit the ground hard, welcomed by dirt and dog saliva.

"Jesus, Sam, did you become a flying squirrel?"

She secured his hands behind his back and rubbed his face in the sandy earth. "Call me Rocky. I won! Now give it back."

He spat dirt, and a dog licked his mouth. "Goddammit, Sam! Shit."

The dogs were trampling his head. Made it damn near impossible to get his own back, so he stopped struggling, falling lax against the ground. Across the yard there was a sharp whistle and the dogs raced off. Bobby's voice was clear and amused. "No broken bones, you hear?"

They were both required to answer. "Yes, sir!"

There was a laugh and an inaudible comment before the door banged shut and Bobby went back to business.

They were both breathing hard. Dean gave Sammy time to gloat, dig herself a little deeper with "always been slow" and "beaten by a girl" and "shouldn't pick a fight you can't win."

Eventually her hold on his wrists went loose. He bucked her off, rolled and got her pinned.

He thought he showed remarkable maturity by not making _her_ eat dirt.

He laughed at her curse and watched her struggle in vain. "You should know by now—never let your guard down."

She rolled her eyes, looking suitably annoyed with her face in the dust. "On a _hunt_. I thought my big brother would play fair."

"No such thing as a fair fight, Sammy. You gotta stay on your toes forever. Winchesters never quit."

She stilled suddenly and took a deep breath. "Let me up."

He snorted. "You're gonna have to ask a lot nicer than—"

"Let me up!" Her voice wavered.

Aw, shit. He let go of her wrists with a little massage, watching her struggle to her knees, ready to apologize.

Suddenly he was flat on his back with an eye full of Sammy, grinning like a shark. The leverage of her hold was shit, but she had a knee pressed to the family jewels, and he knew from experience she _would_ take the dirty shot.

"No such thing as a fair fight, Sam." She made a face, voice high-pitched like he were a girl. "I'm always on my toes, Sam."

He laughed. "A'right, I concede. Nice fake-out."

She squinted at him suspiciously.

"Honest! Game over. Uncle. I wave the white flag."

She grinned at him sunnily.

Then she pressed her mouth to his, eyes open while his rounded, sneaky-quick hand making a beeline for his crotch by way of his jean pocket.

He choked on his own spit.

She sat up with her fist wrapped around her necklace and winked. "Just getting what I came for."

Sam took off for the house at a run and left Dean with his head spinning in the dirt.

He was torn between admiring her dirty tactics and wondering when she'd become a flirt. Always had caught onto everything too damn fast.

* * *

Dean spent the rest of the afternoon watching Sam watch him and reevaluating the known order of the universe. Over dinner, Bobby and John talked water sprites and river nymphs. Dad had a truck squared away, and they'd be moving on to Idaho tomorrow.

His participation in the discussion wasn't required beyond affirmative grunts and the occasional sir. Which was good, because most of his attention was focused on the way Sam was attempting to do obscene things to her fork with her tongue. She was mostly falling short and he wanted to tell her she looked more like a cow chewing cud, but it wasn't hard to envisioned her getting better, and the long trail of dead bodies in his future.

That night she snuggled up to him as soon as they got into bed. He sighed and prayed for patience.

"Samantha."

"I promise I won't molest you, Dean."

The words vibrated against his adam's apple, lips brushing skin, but nothing was technically inappropriate about the way she settled against his side. Her tone could have been joking. For a moment he entertained the idea that she wasn't as devious as he thought she was.

She smelled good, like his sister. Too-expensive shampoo and vanilla soap. She buried her nose in the hollow of his throat like she was sniffing him, too, and the thought made him warm and kinda awkward.

She was like a ticking time-bomb these days.

They listened quietly as Bobby and their father both turned in—creaking floorboards and groaning pipes.

The house got quiet but neither of them slept. Sam squirmed around a few times, shifting innocently enough. Least she wasn't trying to actually grab his junk. It was a weird kind of gratitude. Something that, a month ago, he wouldn't have thought about.

A few minutes later there was a brush of lips at his ear. At first maybe on accident, and then definitely not.

"Sam. Don't."

She didn't move her mouth away when she spoke. "Why not."

It honestly felt good and he suppressed a shudder. It made his voice hard. "Guys don't like dumb chicks, so stop acting like one."

"You do."

"Do not."

She pulled back to give him an incredulous look, and he felt his whole body sigh in relief at the distance.

"I don't! Sometimes there are other qualities that compensate for a lack of intelligence. That's not the same as digging stupidity."

She lay her head back down, snorting softly. "Qualities like what, cup size?"

The squirm that pushed her chest forward? So not subtle.

"Among others."

"Like sexual experience. They need lots of that." This time she shrank away from him. He was tired of going in circles.

"Sammy. Where's the fire, all of a sudden?"

"I don't know." Her voice was thin. He rubbed her arm like he was warming her up. This was big brother stuff. _This_ he could do.

"Well chill out, man, you've got time. And you _really_ shouldn't be so desperate you gotta jump me just yet."

It would have been a bad joke a couple months ago. Now he knew it was doomed to fall flat, but he didn't expect her to jerk away like she'd been hit.

"Sammy?"

She hesitated. "There was a bug."

"Mosquito?"

"Just a fly." She laid back down, farther away. His arm was an awkward barrier between them.

"You're right," she said after a few moments. "It's no big deal. Thanks, Dean, I feel better now."

Her voice was so flat that at first he thought she was being a smart aleck. He reviewed her tone and decided she was just lying really, really badly.

"Dad taught us how to sell a line _way_ better than that."

"Not a line."

"Bullshit. What's wrong."

"I'm not like you, Dean."

"And thank God for that. The world's not ready for two of me."

Some nights, _nothing_ could get a smile. "Shut up. I just think, sometimes—"

He watched helplessly as her face crumpled. Since puberty, sometimes she just started to cry at the drop of a hat. Their dad regularly muttered about the evils of female hormones and muttered "God help us if she doesn't get her sea legs soon." Dean wondered if this meant they should have stopped at a drug store on the way here, but he wasn't about to ask.

He reached out and traced a finger down her nose, capped the gesture with a cartoonish honk. It made her choke on a laugh but then it all exploded out of her, so fast he could hardly keep up.

"I just think, sometimes, this is it for me. This is the rest of my life. I'll never have a house and a family and kids and a dog…I've always really wanted a dog, and nobody's ever gonna love me because we'll be running from demons and debt collectors forever and I've never had an orgasm because I can't just _jerk off anywhere like a boy_ , Dean, and the first time I had sex really sucked and I'm stuck with Zitface in the motel office for the _rest of my life_ , and of _course_ I want something special but I should just…that's never…never gonna happen, not for me, and I should just give up now—"

"Woah. Woah, Samantha. Breathe." She was sobbing by the time she was done, hard enough to maybe wake Bobby from across the hall, but that's not what mattered. "Sshh, breathe, sweetheart." She fought him when he tried to hold her, but he could stroke her hair and pet down her arms. "Deep breath. Again. And again. There you go."

She had control again, though her breath was still hitching. Her eyes were puffy and she scrubbed at them like she was angry.

"This doesn't have to be…." He pulled away her hands and made her look at him. "This doesn't have to be your life forever, Sammy. You'll have all those things. Just maybe not tomorrow."

"No. I _won't_." It was close to being another sob, so dejected and matter-of-fact it broke his heart.

"Sam. Sure you—"

She looked him square in the eye. "What are you gonna do, Dean? Buy the house across the street? Get a minivan and cut the lawn on Sundays?"

"Let's not get carried away here," he joked. "I said you, not me."

She sat up, stiff and angry. "Dad's not always gonna be here. And the way he lives, he'll die sooner than later."

"Hey!" He tried to ignore the way the idea made terror crawl up his spine. "First of all, I don't know what that has to do with the price of—"

"Without me around, you'll be _all alone_."

Like a kick in the nuts. She really did fight dirty. Her laughter was pinched and humorless at the look on his face. "Yeah. _Exactly_."

For a while, he couldn't find words. Or coherent thought. Or any thought at all. He was chilled all the way through. Sam's face was pressed against her kneecaps and he thought that maybe she was crying again. That restored the primary objective.

"Yeah, well if that happens…. When that happens, it'll be my problem. Not yours."

"Fuck off, Dean. You're not the only one in this family that cares."

Jesus _Christ_ , she could be so impossible.

"I give up. I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do with you. Quit thinking so much and go to bed, Samantha."

She gave her knees a derisive snort. For the sake of his sanity, he rolled over and did his best to pretend she wasn't there. Sleep was a goddamn long time coming.

* * *

The next day was defined by long hours in the car, and complete silence. They were in Idaho by nightfall, too exhausted to do anything but collapse in bed. Their room was in Twin Falls, and when Sam still refused to speak over breakfast the next morning, John pulled Dean aside to inform him he'd be doing the hunt alone.

Dean should stay behind and "fix whatever the hell is wrong with your sister."

For the rest of the day, fixing his sister looked a whole lot like watching cable and getting plastered. Sam curled up under the covers and pretended to be fascinated by the television.

"Sometimes I think about you when I masturbate."

It came out of nowhere. He was three sheets to the wind and nodding off in a crappy motel chair. He'd have chalked it up to auditory hallucination or a really weird dream, but afterwards she was looking right at him. He didn't even pretend to have something to say to that.

"More than sometimes, actually. A lot. I think about you a lot."

She rolled over and didn't say another word for the rest of the night.

* * *

She looked at him strangely the whole next morning while he pretended to be clueless as to why. He could pinpoint the exact moment she decided he'd been too wasted last night to remember. After that she went from wary and sullen to just plain sullen and they played another long, delightful round of The Silent Game, Extended Edition.

Dean gave up around two in the afternoon and left to find something to kill. Unfortunately all he found was a coupla frat boys that needed lighter wallets.

He couldn't stop thinking about Sam. And sex. Sam, and sex. Sam and sex, Sam and sex, SamandsexSamandsex. It wasn't hard at all to lose the first few games.

He returned to the room a couple hundred bucks richer, lost in thoughts he didn't like at all. More than once he caught himself staring at Sam, whose eyes were suspiciously swollen.

When it was time to sleep he crawled into the other bed. Turned off the tv and spent the next twenty minutes listening to Sammy quietly weep.

He sat up and rubbed a hand over his face. "Samantha."

The sound choked off abruptly, though she couldn't have really thought he was asleep in the first place. He listened to her struggle, clueless what to do til a whimper escaped her throat.

"Sam." It was a sigh. A familiar one. He slipped out of his dad's bed and into their own, where Sammy was curled defensively, facing the far wall. He curled himself around her and held on til she was all cried out.

"Gonna have to get you a salt lick in the morning," he said finally.

She laughed in the way that meant, _that's stupid (but funny)_ , and elbowed him in the ribs.

"Oof." And then, because he was that much of a masochist, he teased her. "No wonder you have trouble, if that's how you treat all the guys you wanna fuck."

She didn't freeze…she slumped in his arms. "You remember."

"Yeah, I remember. Way to give me an aneurysm, by the way."

"Oh God, I'm a _freak!_ " Her voice was starting to climb.

He shook her to put a stop to that, right quick. "No more crying, I mean it. And come on, we already knew that. You were born a freak."

"You're not funny."

"I don't know about that."

She took a deep breath and shuddered to a smaller size. "Don't worry, I know you don't want me back."

"You're hot. What's not to want?"

"Don't make fun of me."

"Who's making fun? You're a Winchester. We have good genetics."

She turned and gave him a dirty look, mouth so close he could almost taste her.

"You fail at life."

But she tipped him smile. He smiled in return. "Why?"

"We're talking about my dirty, forbidden feelings, and you bring up genetics!"

"Sorry, I didn't know it was a state secret."

She let her head fall back on the pillow. He kissed her shoulder. Ran a hand lightly over her body. Pressed another kiss on her ear with just a little tongue. Slow, methodical touches that couldn't be mistaken for anything other than what they were.

"Dean. What are you doing."

"Boy, you weren't kidding about the virgin part. You see Samantha, when a man loves a woman very much…."

She tensed up like he was making fun. " _Dean_." And maybe he was.

He kissed the mole behind her ear. "Relax, Sammy. Everything is fine."

"Nothing about this is fine."

"Such a drama queen."

"Dea—"

"Dude, I'm trying to be romantic, here. You're cramping my style."

No sense of humor. She gave him the stink eye. "Just don't, ok? I don't want your… _pity fuck_. Please. Don't."

He sighed and pressed his lips to her shoulder one last time. But he didn't move away as her breath evened out into sleep.

* * *

All night, he was plagued with weird dreams…three guesses as to the common theme. They were mostly about screwing his sister to save the world. He wished his job were ever that easy, solved with a nice long fuck. There was one where he was a chicken (?) and another at the end where he had a magical cock.

If you asked him, that last one might've had a ring of truth.

He woke up when it was still dark. Still spooned behind Sammy, but now he was hard. In his sleep his hand had crept up on its own to rest against the lowest curve of her breast. Not cupping her, just. Close.

She was warm and soft like taffy and right then the idea of touching her didn't seem so odd. It was what she wanted. He was pretty sure he'd break if he had to listen to her cry like that one more time.

He brushed his thumb along the bottom of her breast and she hummed. Smacked her lips. He smiled when he realized she'd been drooling.

She was just Sam. And this was something he could do for her.

He listened to his own heartbeat for a while. Stalling for time.

"Saaammy." It was better to ease her awake. Unlike him and Dad, she was a deep sleeper, and if you startled her she'd come up swinging. He slipped a hand under his old t-shirt and rubbed her tummy. "Sam, wake up."

"Muh?"

She turned her head, half-asleep and disoriented, and he kissed the corner of her mouth.

"I wanna touch you, Sammy."

"Unngh?" She blinked herself awake, a little frown forming between her eyes that he smoothed down with his thumb. He inhaled against her neck and rolled his hips against her, watching as she caught on.

"Dean?"

"Want to. You gonna let me?"

He let his fingers play over a patch of bare skin by her hip, and she jerked forward to follow. He smiled.

"That a yes?"

"Dean…."

"You think too much, little sister."

His boxers were big on her. There was plenty of room for his hand inside. He sucked on her earlobe and absorbed the violent shudder she gave from just being teased along her outer lips.

"Sam." He slipped his hand away and hooked her thigh back over his leg. "C'mon, honey. There you go. Good girl."

There was no cause to tease her, not when she was so worked up already. He hugged her back against him with the arm that was pillowing her head, inhaling sharply at how wet she already was. Spread the slickness around and used it to roll her clit. Her body jumped against him.

"Oh. _Fuck_!"

"You're welcome," he smirked, and she choked out a laugh and smacked him where she could reach. It turned into fingers gouging his thigh when he eased two fingers inside her.

She tensed like a bowstring against him, muscles contracting around him, tight. "Jesus, Sam." He curled his fingers and rubbed along her walls, thumb flicking her clit. Played her til she was panting, fucking herself clumsily on his fingers.

Christ. He hadn't expected her frantic like this. Having to hold her still while she twisted against him. If this were anybody else….

He scraped his teeth along her sweaty neck and started to stroke into her hard and fast, grinding against her ass in time. Already she started to arch away like her hips were chasing her orgasm, mouth forming fractured little remnants of his name.

When she finally tightened up and tremored, all the sound stopped like it was caught in her throat along with her breath. Everything came rushing out with a sighing moan when she fell back, boneless.

She was practically purring, so pleased with herself. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was a mess and his heart got tangled up in old love and something else. He eased his fingers out of her body but left them cupped against her.

"Mmm."

Any shyness or hesitation she'd had before was gone in the afterglow. She rolled out of his hold and turned in his arms, kissing him with her mouth and eyes wide open, sucking at his lip til he brushed her cheek with messy fingers and kissed right back.

"Thank you."

"Do anything for you," he told her. Cringed as soon as it was out. He expected a fight but she just smiled.

"I know." Her hand fumbled down to brush at his cock. "But it wasn't that much of a chore, right?"

He whoofed out a laugh and shook his head, cooperating when she reached in his boxers and started stroking him. He bit softly at her mouth. Showed her what he liked.

"Good, yeah. That…good…."

She was watching his face with wide eyes and somehow he was the one that felt stripped bare. He was strangely glad that their clothes were still on and they weren't skin-on-skin.

"Samsamsam—"

He squeezed the breath out of her when he came, choking, eyes squeezed shut and mouth pressed against her forehead. He quickly pulled her hand out of his shorts. Kissed her knuckles and held it close to his chest.

"Love you."

It didn't matter which one of them said it. To Dean it felt like the last nail in a coffin. Final, done, no take-backs.

She pressed her face against him, and muttered herself to sleep. He watched the shadows dance on the ceiling. Maybe it wasn't so bad as all that.


End file.
